Loose Arrangements
by Stephane Richer
Summary: this isn't a real omiai, but she's no coward


Loose Arrangements

Disclaimer: don't own

Notes: Day 12 of the 30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge by ghiraher on tumblr: arranged marriage au

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It might be luck that she's managed to escape her aunts' clutches for so long, luck and memories of her rebellious teenage years spent almost entirely on a bike wearing a mask, hair bleached almost white and stiff from the long soak in peroxide, body racked with bruises and mouth in a permanent scowl when it was visible, having permeated her aunts' minds and apparently fixed their minds on her being a lost cause. She had been lost, though perhaps not in the way they'd been thinking, but she was hardly set in her ways even as she rose through the ranks of her gang; she'd learned to wield pencils and basketballs as well as she wielded her fist, to fight with words and dribbles the way she did with her fists.

Of course they're too willing to welcome her back with open arms now that she's close to being a respectable young woman; she's got a college degree and her hair is soft and black and she represents Japan on the national basketball team and she is hardly the perfect niece but she's now apparently good enough to further "improve" and to try to introduce to the nice young sons and nephews of their neighbors of a similar age and with similar amounts of time (too much) on their hands.

Perhaps she should have married Genta; he's not serious enough and she doesn't love him but he's kind to her and she knows him and they can talk basketball for ages—it wouldn't be fair to him, though, and Masako tries to be fair when she can. Perhaps she should have bullied one of her underlings' brothers into marrying her and then living apart; the document's the only important part—but things could end badly there, too. She hasn't signed her name to any documents anyway and this is just an informal meeting; it's not even an omiai. Marriage is the not-so-subtlely desired end but there is a long road ahead even if this somehow goes well enough to get anywhere at all.

"You're quite a becoming young lady when you stop scowling and wear proper clothes, Masako-chan."

Her aunt zips up the dress; she's slim but at her height even that's too much for this dress, made for a woman ten centimeters shorter, and she can't breathe like this; she makes a noise of protest but her aunt ignores her, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeves.

"This is just one meeting."

"Don't roll your eyes at me," says her aunt without looking up. "I don't see why you're so set against it; it took us quite a while to find a suitable match so you should be grateful. Now turn around."

She blinks at the mirror; the contours of her muscled arms are hidden by the sleeves that puff out around them until being gathered with itchy lace at the wrist but her torso is outlined cleanly in something resembling an hourglass figure. Her hair is pinned out of her face; the reflection is generically pretty and neat, and probably exactly what this guy is expecting (especially considering he's related to a friend of her aunts).

"Does he even have a name?" She kicks at the carpet, petulance rising—she feels like she's only half of her twenty-nine years; then again if she was fifteen she would have run off again already, shed her shoes and dashed like a purple blur barefoot on the sidewalk to the bus stop, intent on catching the next one back to Akita before she realizes she's forgotten her purse back at her aunts' apartment.

"Don't slouch. He's Miyuki-san's nephew...Hanazawa maybe? I think she said he did some sort of sport thing, too. Maybe he owns a gym."

Masako wrinkles her nose and bites back a retort about not slouching. He'd better not be one of those fitness buffs throwing backhanded compliments at her aunts' tea because it doesn't have the correct mineral balance; she's met too many of those people playing basketball and she'd rather not meet another.

They reach the end of the hall too quickly and Masako's aunt practically shoves her over the threshold into the kitchen. Her other aunt and Miyuki (the name barely rings a bell but Masako recognizes her as the woman who always brought over orange tea) are flanking a tall young man with twitching fingers; he looks a bit too relaxed in his suit despite the motion of his hands and the way it fits him; it's oddly familiar-and then she gazes at his face and almost loses her composure. The dress feels tighter even though she's holding her breath.

"Masako-san?"

"Ah." She bows hurriedly. "It's good to see you again."

"Oh, you two already know each other? Good. Have fun."

The three older women usher them out of the kitchen and into the living room, almost slamming the door behind them. Harasawa fiddles with his hair and Masako gestures toward the couch.

Harasawa sits and she joins him; the skirt of her dress puffs out around her legs and she tries to gather it in but just ends up hiding her hands under the folds of fabric that seem almost parachute-like and make her take up two thirds of the couch.

"They probably just wanted an excuse to hang out and gossip. This isn't even a real omiai."

Harasawa continues to fiddle with his hair and Masako feels like she has to fill the air with something, that the tense undercurrent is wrong but she doesn't know how to fix it and she's not normally quite so chatty even with her friends but there's something about him, something about the way he looks at her, unidentifiable but kind of scary. Even when she pours them lukewarm tea from the pot it's not enough to occupy her mind or calm her down.

"I wouldn't mind it."

"I'm sorry?"

He drops his hands into his lap where they curl up around the shape of an imaginary basketball and looks at her; her face heats up but she wills herself not to look away (she's no coward).

"Dating you, marrying you if it comes to that. I wouldn't mind."

It's all she can do not to bury her face in her hands; he's way too forward and this is too much at once-he reaches out and she lets him touch her shoulder without flinching; the pressure is light and gentle.

"I'm sorry; was that too much?"

"You're sly," she grumbles.

It's quite the opposite, though; isn't it? He's too straightforward; his intentions are clearer than museum glass under her feet and she can't tell if she's still on solid ground or not. His hand is still on her shoulder; his thumb is gently stroking the area above her collarbone and it's kind of calming.

"I want to go back home and teach there at some point," she says. (t's better to disappoint him now than to spring it on him later.)

"You're from Akita, right?"

She nods.

He hums, twirling his hair around a finger on his free hand.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, I guess."

This kind of attitude would piss her off if it was anyone else, even if she hasn't technically agreed to a second meeting let alone a relationship or marriage yet, but somehow it lays to rest a bit of the anxiety she's been trying very hard not to feel—about her future (with him or without him), her aunts, and not knowing exactly what she wants. She offers him a smile and he returns it.


End file.
